Stroll Past Fridges Of Raw Meat To Find This Soho Speakeasy

Being the jaded boozehounds we are, it takes a lot for the whole ‘hidden door, secret staircase’ act to impress us. But even we have to admit, the meat fridge, swinging with bloodied sides of beef, on the way down to Jack Solomons is a neat touch.

It’s fitting too, given Jack Solomons is named after the boxing impresario whose gym once stood on this site — echoing with the sounds of pummeled flesh.

Anyone hoping to be walloped around the chops with old sports page cuttings will be sorely disappointed (dolled up sports bar this ain’t), but if smart curtained booths and cabaret-style table lamps are your bag, this joint’ll do nicely.

An On the Ropes. On the bar

As for the house drinks: some deliver a sucker punch (the Coffee & Cigarettes boldly and brilliantly stirs scotch, vermouth and chocolate bitters); others are sucky punches (slurping from a Nipper Morris, we concur it doesn’t taste far off a slightly flat Fanta.)

With some trial and error, though, you’ll find your poison. And given the louche surroundings, and tip-top waiting service — you’ll have to watch you don’t KO-yourself on the sauce.